well, you’re right enough about that, my lord,” the smith said in answer to Raven’s observation that nowhere in Scotland was wrought iron produced, which would be free from the impurities that often ruined an object of some hours’ work.
“My name is Raven,” the American had corrected, offering his hand, “and I’m no lord.”
“Your pardon, then, Mr. Raven. I meant no offense,” the smith said, smiling, his pale eyes twinkling at his joke.
“Offense?” Catherine Montfort Raven questioned.
Her husband turned, smiling, to answer her slightly affronted inquiry. “There are men,” he explained, “who believe that to be accused of being English nobility is a deadly insult.”
“Why?” she asked, never having encountered such a ridiculous prejudice. But then, of course, she had never before talked to a Scots blacksmith as he worked his forge.
“Because it implies uselessness, perhaps,” Raven answered hesitantly. He had known instinctively what the smith implied, but he didn’t intend to explain the insult to Catherine.
“Like my father, you mean,” she suggested.
Without answering, Raven took her elbow to guide her back to the waiting carriage, scarcely able to believe that this incredibly beautiful girl, serenely elegant even after their long journey, was now his wife. His to care for and protect. And her comment had brought him back to the stillprecarious situation in which they found themselves. The Duke of Montfort, when crossed, could be a very dangerous man. Despite the Scots’ friendliness, Raven doubted they’d be willing to fight the duke’s hirelings to defend a stranger who happened to know something of their trade.
He helped Catherine into the coach and walked back to the forge to wait for the mulled wine the smith’s daughter had been dispatched to fetch.
“That girl’s too delicate for marriage to the likes of you, Mr. Raven,” the blacksmith offered, eyeing the foreigner’s broad shoulders, which looked more than capable of handling the heavy hammers that were a part of his own trade. “She’ll be whining and denying you after the first child. You’d best hope she gets you a son on her first swelling. Though, come to that, she don’t look sturdy enough to bear a babe. Not up to your riding weight, if you get my meaning,” he suggested, slapping his blushing daughter on her ample rump as she passed. “You need a fine Scots lass who’ll welcome your lovemaking and bear you a houseful of strong sons. You’ll soon be regretting this day’s work,” he said, becoming more daring in response to the hooting enjoyment of the men who had gathered to watch as he plied his bellows.
Even hidden from sight in the isolation of the waiting coach, Catherine was well able to hear the smith’s comments. She felt the hot blood flowing upward into her cheeks, not only at the crudity with which he was discussing the consummation of her marriage, but at the contempt in which he obviously held her and her class.
“You may know a great deal about iron,” her husband said, his voice coming to her as clearly as had the Scotsman’s, although he had not raised it to entertain the listening crowd. “But I’m forced to tell you, sir, that you know nothing about women. My wife is, I assure you, the purest cast steel. You need have no doubts about her quality. Or,” Raven added, “about anything else you’ve called into question.”
At the burst of laughter and the catcalls that greeted his response—all made, surprisingly, at the expense of the smith and not the American who had so eloquently defended his choice of woman—Raven touched his hat, planted a quick kiss on the cheek of the smith’s daughter as he took the stone bottle from her hand, and walked back to the waiting carriage.
Catherine’s blush made it obvious, she was afraid, that she’d overheard the entire conversation. “They don’t think much of the English, do they?” she commented, with what she hoped was a convincing display of nonchalance. “Or of me,” she added almost bitterly, spoiling the effect.
“I told them they were mistaken,” Raven said, smiling. When her lips moved slightly into a reluctant realignment, almost an answering smile, he finished, “About you at least.”
Finally, she did smile. There was really no need to argue with him about the smith’s assessment of the English nobility, an assessment she realized she had at times even shared.
She was also beginning to realize that she was no longer just a part of the world she’d always inhabited; she was, by virtue of the vows she had spoken, simple though they were, a part of Raven’s. A world which, apparently, included vulgar Scots blacksmiths. She shivered slightly, whether from the cold of the morning air or from her acknowledgment that she belonged not only to Raven’s world, but also, of course, to John Raven himself.
“Would you like some wine?” he asked into the uncomfortable silence that had fallen between them.”I can’t vouch for its quality, but at least it’s warm.” He had wrapped his ungloved hands, their golden color reddened slightly with the cold, around the bottle, using it as a warming stone.
She tried to block the image of those strong hands moving over her body, one she was sure the Scotsmen whom they were leaving behind at the smithy were also picturing. She knew her life would never be the same. She had committed herself to this man who had promised her freedom, but now, in the swaying confines of his coach, she acknowledged that that was no longer the thing she most desired from him.
Raven watched the slender fingers smooth tremblingly over her arms. Somehow the sophisticated surety that had characterized Catherine Montfort since he’d met her had softened, had lessened in this unfamiliar environment. He could only imagine what she must be feeling now. She had committed herself to him without any certainty that he would honor their agreement. And if he broke his word, she would have no legal recourse. By virtue of the vows they had just spoken, she had given herself into his control. Because, he reminded himself grimly, he had promised her freedom.
“Here,” he offered softly.
She looked up from the tangled emotions of the last few minutes, to find Raven holding out a steaming cup of the mulled wine. She took the tin mug, her fingers gratefully encircling its heat. As she sipped the comforting beverage, her frame still racked by occasional shivers, her husband’s arm came around her shoulders. He pulled her, unresisting, to lean against the pleasant heat of his body.
At least he could hold her, Raven thought, as frustrating as he was finding the restraint imposed by the terms of their contract to be. For the time being he must be satisfied with the relationship he’d promised. A vow, his grandmother had taught him, was sacred and must be kept, no matter the cost.
Eventually he felt Catherine’s breathing deepen, and he knew that she slept. Asleep in his arms. Her small frame sheltered by his. He would give his life, without hesitation, to guard and protect this woman who now belonged to him. At least in name, he acknowledged bitterly.
Catherine Montfort Raven, he thought again, feeling the pleasure of that stir hotly in his groin. Slowly and carefully he shifted his weight, trying not to waken her, but needing to find a more comfortable position for the painful hardness of desire. John Raven knew, of course, there was really only one position that would ever offer true relief for that particular ache, and he wondered how long it would be before he might be allowed to savor its sweet release.
Two months later
Catherine sat, nibbling the end of her pen, once again remembering that flying journey home from the Border. She had slept, exhausted, through
